


Where The Story Ends

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3193994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire must face up to his feelings for his apparently perfect leader, and Enjolras must accept his love for the drunken cynic. All this whilst dealing with the start of a student uprising, haunting memories of years gone by and crippling self-loathing makes things a whole lot more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Icarus

**Author's Note:**

> *Warning: This story contains an in-depth analysis of several very real issues, including depression, self-harm, eating disorders and addiction. Please make sure not to read this if you feel like it will trigger you in any way - of course I want people to enjoy the story, but your safety comes first! *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Warning: this chapter contains mentions of self-harm* Thank you for reading!

**ICARUS**

_Look who’s digging their own grave_

_That is what they all say_

_You’ll drink yourself to death_

The alarm clock sounds. Grantaire lets out a drowsy groan and reaches over for the bedside table, fumbling for the snooze button. His head is pounding. He is very much used to being hungover, being a heavy drinker, but the numbness he feels when he wakes after a night of drinking is never any easier. Drinking takes his mind away from his countless troubles. It allows him to abandon his self-loathing and cynicism, at least for a few hours. But then morning comes and he is brought back to the harshness of reality.

He is, and is not ashamed to admit it, a pessimist. He struggles to see any beauty in a turbulent world like this. The world is an ugly place, full of hatred and judgment. Grantaire is the sort of man who sees the glass as half empty, and then he fills it with more wine and drinks his problems away.

There is one person that keeps the darkness of the world at a distance. Enjolras is an angel, beautiful and pure yet capable of being terrible. He is a God, guiding the people to salvation. His voice is filled with fervent optimism and his eyes glisten with a fiery passion. Enjolras is the sun, and what sort of man falls in love with the sun after hearing the tale of Icarus?

Grantaire eventually slides out of his bed and shuffles over to the tiny ensuite. He turns on the tap and lets cold water run over his hands, then he lifts his hands to his face and cleanses his skin, rubbing the dark circles under his eyelids and then massaging his throbbing temples. He stares at the figure in the mirror. His day-old stubble and dull blue eyes make him look older than he actually is. There is a fading bruise on his cheek and his bottom lip is split, with dried blood stuck to the pink flesh. Grantaire runs a hand through his unkempt dark curls with a sigh; he’s a wreck, and he hates himself for it.

When Grantaire wanders into the kitchen he pours himself a glass of whiskey, then he boils the kettle and prepares a cup of black coffee. He drinks it quickly, the hot liquid scalding his lips and the back of his throat. 

It’s Sunday, he suddenly remembers, which means it is the day of the weekly meeting at the Café Musain. He prefers the weeknight socials at the Corinthe, drinking and joking with his friends, not having to worry about his responsibilities. The only good part about these meetings – the only reason he keeps going to them – is the charismatic leader with his impassioned speeches and exquisite looks. 

Grantaire lets out a noise of frustration as he pictures Enjolras stood in front of him, his head held high as he gives a zealous lecture on the current state of the country. He imagines the man’s inspiring, unfaltering smile and his golden curls, and Grantaire can’t help letting a pitiful whine escape his lips. He is pining. There is no disputing it, and he feels utterly pathetic for falling in love with someone he is so unworthy of having.

 _Better get dressed,_ he thinks, and he reluctantly trudges back to his bedroom. The floor is littered with clothes and an assortment of art supplies, which he makes no attempt to maneuver around, instead walking straight through the middle of the clutter. Grantaire gets some clothes from his drawers: a pair of scruffy jeans and his forest-green hoody that smells of smoke and oil paints. He forces his feet into an old pair of trainers and looks over at the clock.

There is less than half an hour before the meeting. Grantaire curses himself for setting the alarm clock to such a late time. He hadn’t realised how quickly the morning had passed, but he didn’t have the effort to rush to the café. It wasn’t as if he contributed anything, anyway.

“Grantaire, you’re fourteen minutes late,” is the greeting he got from Enjolras, who is stood on a table in the back room of the Musain looking irritatingly perfect.

All heads turn to Grantaire as he mumbles a halfhearted apology. He walks over to the back corner and takes a seat beside Jehan, resting his elbows on the table and cupping his chin in his hands. Enjolras pays little attention to him and continues the speech, and Grantaire finds himself drifting into his thoughts.

Enjolras looks positively radiant today. His scarlet cardigan contrasts with his blond hair, which is tied back into a messy bun. The first few buttons of his crisp, white shirt are undone, exposing a little of his freckled, marble skin. Grantaire feels ashamed for looking. Such godlike beauty should not be visible to mere mortals like him.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras’ stern voice brings him back to reality, and he blinks up at their leader blankly, “Focus on the meeting, if you’d please. It’s important.”

“You know I don’t care about anything you’re saying, Apollo,” he mutters, the nickname slipping off his lips from habit.

Enjolras glares at him. He hates that scornful, condescending look. Somehow he always manages to offend or enrage the other man, and that’s not something he’s proud of, although he finds it quite amusing when Enjolras is angry.

“If you care so little, why do you turn up to these meetings?” Enjolras questions harshly, “You play no role in helping the cause, in fact you make it quite clear that you disagree with most of our principles. I don’t see why you even bother to come." 

 _I come because you are the most perfect person in existence and I love you,_ Grantaire thinks to himself. He swallows.

“You know why I come,” he manages to respond, “I come because of you.” 

“Oh, _please_ stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” Grantaire questions, raising an eyebrow.

“Pretending you believe in me, or whatever this is,” Enjolras hisses bitterly, “You feel the need to ridicule me for everything I say. How does that in any way mean that you _believe in_ me?" 

“I do-”

“Please don’t argue,” Combeferre interrupts, and he lets out a tiresome sigh. Les Amis are accustomed to these little heated debates between Enjolras and Grantaire. It is a regular occurrence for the two men to quarrel, and most of their friends seem sick of it. 

“It’s not my fault that this skeptical, alcoholic idiot can’t seem to tolerate me,” Enjolras murmurs.

“You are such a fucking hypocrite,” Grantaire scoffs, “You literally insult everything I do, so I’m _sorry_ for offending you but you say so much _worse_ to me, arsehole.” 

Enjolras is silent for a moment as he regards Grantaire with a look of what seems to be guilt (maybe Grantaire needs to get his eyes checked out).

“Just be quiet,” the man instructs him, rather weakly for such a resolute leader. His initial anger towards Grantaire seems to have disintegrated into indifference.

The meeting passes slowly. Jehan whispers an occasional comment in Grantaire’s ear, but he takes no notice. He is occupied by Enjolras, who keeps giving him quick glances and sheepish grins. This is odd, because usually Enjolras pays Grantaire no attention whatsoever. Enjolras must be looking at the bruise on his face, Grantaire concludes, because why else would he keep peering at him?

“Grantaire, can I have a quick word?” Enjolras asks when the meeting finishes, and Grantaire is sure that the blond’s cheeks are redder than usual.

The raven-haired cynic shrugs and makes his way over to Enjolras. The latter waits until the room is empty to start speaking.

“I’d like to apologise for what I said earlier,” Enjolras says awkwardly, twisting a loose golden curl around his finger, “I was out of order.”

“Yeah, you were,” responds Grantaire, folding his arms and giving Enjolras a stony look.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“You were right, though,” Grantaire answers frostily, “I’m a skeptic, and a drunk, and an idiot.” 

“The first two things, yes,” Enjolras replies, smiling feebly, “But you are certainly not an idiot. 

Grantaire looks at him with a scowl. “Stop mocking me.”

“I’m not mocking you. I mean it. You are not an idiot, Grantaire.”

“Oh, _piss off._ You know that’s a lie,” Enjolras tries to cut in but Grantaire continues before he has a chance to speak, “Whatever, I’m leaving.”

It takes him approximately five minutes to walk to the liquor store, a further minute or so to purchase a bottle of red wine, and three minutes to walk home.  About ten minutes in total before he is slumped on his sofa drinking wine from the bottle.

He finishes the bottle in record time, and when he runs out of wine he stumbles over to the kitchen and takes a few swigs of vodka.

“Fuck it,” he groans, staggering out of the small kitchen and making his way to the living room again. He collapses onto the couch and stares numbly up at the ceiling 

“Enjolras is a bastard,” he mutters to himself.

“Lovely.”

Grantaire peers up vacantly and notices a blurry Courfeyrac standing in the doorway.

“The hell are you doing in my flat, Courf?” he slurs.

“You left your door open,” Courfeyrac responds matter-of-factly.

“But _why_ are you here?" 

“Oh, Enj sent me to check up on you. He’s worried.”

“Tell him to fuck off, and you can fuck off too,” Grantaire sniffles and rolls onto his side, tucking his knees up to his chest. 

Courfeyrac shakes his head, sighs and leaves the apartment, slamming the door on his way out. 

 

*

 

Grantaire is woken by the sound of his phone ringing. He lets out an irritable grunt as he reaches over to the coffee table with a trembling hand. Looking at the screen, he sees that the caller is Jehan, and he rolls his eyes.

“What d’you want?” he grumbles into the phone.

“Nice to hear from you too, R,” Prouvaire replies sarcastically, “I take it you’re hungover?”

“Of course,” mutters Grantaire.

“I just wanted to let you know that I got about seven texts from Enjolras asking whether you’re alright,” Jehan tells him, “ _Are_ you alright? He’s worried about you." 

“He is _not_ worried about me. There is definitely some ulterior motive to his stupid scheme.” 

“Well, _I’m_ worried about you.”

Grantaire mumbles an irritated “I’m fine” and his friend hums thoughtfully.

“I don’t think you are,” they respond, “You sound like you’ve had a pretty rough night. How much did you drink?”

“Not much,” Grantaire says with a shrug, “Please, J, can you just go now?”

“Okay, sure, if you want me to. Get some rest or something,” Jehan sighs, and they hang up the phone.

Jehan’s request is not easy to follow. Grantaire finds himself unable to fall asleep again. He swears under his breath and forces himself off the sofa, then feeling an increasing nausea he runs to the bathroom. He vomits into the toilet with a groan.

He realises that he should be at university soon, but missing class is currently the least of Grantaire’s concerns. He stopped caring about university months ago. He still wants an art degree, of course, but there is something so _draining_ about working. The only thing he has motivation to do at the moment is to drink, smoke and occasionally splash some paint around on canvas. Plus he always manages to drag himself out of the flat to Les Amis’ meetings, which is an achievement, he supposes.

He’d be lying if he said he didn't have a problem. In fact, he has several. Alcoholism, crippling depression and an infatuation with the most perfect man in the universe, to be precise.

After drinking a glass of whiskey (apparently his new morning beverage) and brushing his teeth, he jumps into the shower. He curses loudly when an image of Enjolras appears in his mind; Enjolras with his perfect hair and his perfect face and what Grantaire can only assume is a perfect body. He can’t help sliding his soap-covered hand down to his groin as he imagines Enjolras in the shower with him, naked and wet. God, _that_ is something he’s yearning to see.

The moan that escapes his lips as he wraps his hand around his hard cock makes him feel filthy. The desperate cry of “Apollo” as he climaxes is surely sinful.

Grantaire catches himself in the mirror as he steps out of the shower, dripping wet with flushed cheeks. He stares at his reflection and frowns.

He traces his fingers over his arm, across the numerous tattoos and fading scars. He sighs and reaches for his razor, and soon his arms are covered in fresh, tender cuts dripping with crimson blood. He numbly watches the red liquid trickle down his skin as he holds his arms in front of him. 

“Shit, R, you are an absolute mess.”


	2. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of Enjolras' story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning: includes references to an eating disorder* Thank you for reading!

**RED** ****

_You took something perfect_

_And painted it red_

 

Enjolras is too stubborn to admit that recently he has been overworking himself. He pays no attention when Combeferre nags him to get more sleep, or when Courfeyrac comments on how little he seems to be eating. Sharing an apartment with his two best and most protective friends is challenging enough, but what makes things even harder is hiding his secrets from them. Everyone has secrets, Enjolras knows, but he feels like his are worse, and he cannot bear the thought of his friends finding out. 

It’s Monday morning now, which means that he has a class to attend. To most people a lecture on Politics and History seems like the most boring thing in the world, but to Enjolras it is _thrilling_. He has an ardent fascination with national history (in particular the revolution and the rebellions of the nineteenth century). And politics distracts him from his own issues, since he is forced to think about the problems of other people and, of course, those problems are more important than his own.

“Have you been up all night?” is the first thing Combeferre asks as he steps into the open plan living room that morning.

Enjolras is sat on the couch in a loose red jumper and a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms. His mane of golden curls is resting on his shoulders and he is wearing his wide-brimmed black reading glasses as he types away at his laptop. 

“I got a few hours rest,” he replies to his friend. That’s a lie, though, since he didn’t get any sleep at all. He has more important things to do than sleep. And somehow he couldn’t stop thinking about Grantaire last night.

Grantaire, who had stormed out of the Musain the previous day after being offended by Enjolras’ words. Grantaire, who for some unknown reason occupied Enjolras’ thoughts an increasing amount recently. Enjolras finds himself utterly exasperated by the man and yet there is something strangely endearing about him.

“Enjolras, are you listening?”

Brought back to reality, Enjolras blinks up at Combeferre.

“Yes,” he says.

“No you’re not, pay attention,” Combeferre responds with a smirk, “I asked if you wanted a drink.” 

“I don’t.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow at his blatant rudeness but says nothing.

At that moment Courfeyrac bursts into the room, clad only in a pair of blue boxers. He practically skips into the kitchenette and opens the cupboards, eventually taking some cornflakes and eating them from the box.

“Wow, that’s so hygienic,” Ferre says sarcastically.

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Can’t be bothered putting them in a bowl,” he replies with a mouthful of cereal. Then he peers over at Enjolras, who is absorbed in his work. “Hey, Enj, do you want some cereal?”

The question makes Enjolras twitch. “No,” he responds curtly.

“Or toast maybe?” Courf queries, “Or some fruit?”

“I don’t want any food, Courfeyrac,” there is a slight tone of anger in Enjolras’ voice that startles his flatmates.

“You’ve got class, haven’t you? You need to eat something before you go out,” Combeferre remarks.

“I’m getting changed,” Enjolras answers, and he dashes out of the room and to his bedroom.

He takes out some clothes and lays them on his bed before undressing. After he has taken off his shirt, he walks over and stands in front of the full-length mirror, frowning at what he sees. His ribs are quite prominent now, as are his hipbones. He bites his lip and averts his gaze, fumbling for his t-shirt and quickly pulling it over his head.

The t-shirt reads ‘Pardonnez mon Français’. Over it he puts on a red cardigan (he owns at least five of those) and he puts on some black skinny jeans. Once these jeans fitted him perfectly, but now he discovers that he needs to tighten his belt as far as it will possibly go, and even then the trousers feel like they will slide off his waist.

After tying his hair back into a ponytail and gathering his belongings, he makes his way through town to the university. The lecture lasts a few hours and Enjolras tries to take notes on everything the professor says, but soon he feels exhausted from the lack of sleep. His head starts pounding so he takes out a couple of painkillers from his satchel and swallows them with a glass of water.

Once class is over he travels to the Musain, which he soon discovers is apparently closed for ‘personal reasons’. With an irritable sigh he walks down the streets of Saint-Michel. Without comprehending he has done so, he finds himself walking towards a familiar apartment and ringing the doorbell. Only when the door opens and he is greeted with a rather grumpy looking Grantaire does he realise where he is. 

“What the hell do you want?” Grantaire questions.

“Nice to see you too,” Enjolras responds, smiling a little at the skeptic, “I don’t actually want anything. I just sort of… ended up here.”

“You’re very vague,” huffs Grantaire, and he steps aside, “Come on in then, since you’re here.”

The blond looks at him, confused. “You’re actually going to let me in?”

“Of course I am?” Grantaire replies incredulously. 

“I thought you’d still be angry at me for what happened yesterday.”

“I am. I’m pretty pissed off, actually. But what you said had some truth in it, so I can’t hold too much of a grudge.” 

Grantaire lets Enjolras inside and leads him to the living room. The room is extremely cluttered, with beer cans, paintbrushes and pieces of paper scattered across the coffee table. There is a keyboard underneath the window and beside it is a guitar. In the adjacent corner is an easel with a half-finished painting of something that Enjolras can only presume is a glass of wine, knowing Grantaire. 

“Um, do you want a drink or something?” Grantaire probes, “Or something to eat? I have, like, crisps.” 

Enjolras tenses a bit. “No thank you.”

“Oh, I have brie. You like brie, right? I mean, it’s a French cheese so…” 

“I’m really not hungry, Grantaire,” Enjolras cuts in, “I had a big breakfast.”

“Suit yourself.” 

Grantaire takes a seat on the leather sofa and beckons for Enjolras to sit beside him. The latter does so with some hesitation, shuffling a little awkwardly as he sits down.

“Apparently you texted Jehan, and I quote, about seven times last night asking if I was okay,” Grantaire states. 

Infuriatingly, Enjolras cannot stop his cheeks turning scarlet at the comment. “Only three times,” he replies, “You know that Prouvaire has a habit of exaggerating.”

“But why?” asks Grantaire, “Why on earth did you want to know how _I_ was?”

Actually Enjolras doesn’t know the answer to that question. Last night he had this dreadful feeling of uneasiness when he thought about Grantaire, and he found himself wallowing in guilt for saying such appalling things about his friend. Friend? Yes, Grantaire is his friend, most definitely.

“Believe it or not I do actually care about you, R,” Enjolras responds eventually, and he is equally as taken aback as Grantaire when he hears the nickname roll off his tongue.

“Well, I’m flattered,” says Grantaire with a small grin.

“Um, right,” Enjolras swallows and looks down awkwardly, “Listen, Grantaire, I want to say that I really am sorry for-”

“You’ve already apologised, you don’t have to do it again,” Grantaire cuts in quickly, “I deserved to hear everything you said." 

“No, you-”

“Maybe you should go,” says the cynic. It’s more of an instruction than a suggestion, and Enjolras can take a hint. Feeling a little dejected, the blond rises from where he is sat and lets out a sigh.

“Yeah. Alright. Sorry.”

He excuses himself without so much as a goodbye.

 

*

 

That evening, Enjolras finds himself sprawled across his bed, his golden locks disarrayed and his usually sparkling, passionate blue eyes dull with tiredness and despondency. He is supposed to be the leader of Les Amis – the strong one, the brave one – but right now he wishes he could curl up into a ball and cry, and just forget about his responsibilities.

“Mon Dieu,” he mumbles, rolling onto his front and burying his face in his pillow, “What is wrong with me?

 

*

 

It’s a while later when Combeferre walks into the room to find Enjolras asleep, but the noise of the door opening wakes him, and he looks up at his friend drowsily. Ferre fiddles with his glasses and gives Enjolras a concerned smile.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Enj,” he begins with a sigh, “You haven’t been yourself recently. There’s something wrong, hm? What is it, Enji? Why are you acting… like this?”

“Like what?” Enjolras practically barks at him, “There is _nothing_ wrong with me, Combeferre.”

“The first step to recovery of… Whatever this is, is to admit that you have a problem.”

“I _don’t_ have a problem.”

Of course he doesn’t have a problem. He’s just going through a rough patch. Grantaire is the one with the problem; he’s the alcoholic and the skeptic. Enjolras is fine, thank you very much. He has to be strong for the cause, he has to be their enigmatic leader, he has to be _perfect._ And maybe _that_ is his problem, because he knows that nobody is perfect, and trying to be something he can never achieve is such a strain.

“You haven’t eaten since…” Ferre has to take a moment to contemplate, “Actually, I don’t think I’ve seen you eat anything all week.”

“You aren’t with me twenty-four seven, Combeferre. I eat when you aren’t around,” replies Enjolras, and he feels a pang of betrayal as he lies to his friend.

“As a medical student, I think that you need to-”

“Get out.”

“Sorry?”

“I said get out,” Enjolras repeats, scowling, “Leave me alone.”

Combeferre, rather reluctantly, obliges.

 

*

 

A while later Courfeyrac brings Enjolras a bowl of vegetable soup and some buttered bread. Enjolras stares at the tray of food tensely, but Courf says he isn’t going anywhere until he tries some of his delicious soup. Unwillingly, Enjolras ever so slowly lifts a spoonful of soup to his lips. He purses his lips at the taste.

“Surely it isn’t that bad,” Courfeyrac teases. 

Enjolras lets out a sigh. “I’m just not hungry.”

 “Jesus, Enjolras. You never eat. Are you actually a God? Because that’s the only explanation I can think of for it.”

 _You’re not thinking very hard then, are you?_ Enjolras thinks to himself.

Courfeyrac leaves the room, taking the uneaten tray of food with him. Enjolras puts his head in his hands and lets out a loud groan.

When did the prospect of eating become so terrifying to him? It’s not like he ever had problems with his weight or appearance; he’s the lankiest of his friends apart from perhaps Jehan and Marius, and he’s been told by many that he’s the most attractive. But beauty isn’t something he cares about. He supposes that he doesn’t eat because, well, he doesn’t _deserve_ to. He has too much work to do – he has to improve the state of the country, and until his work has succeeded he will not deserve to indulge in luxuries like food.

Maybe that’s why he can’t stand to look in the mirror, because seeing his scrawny body reminds him that France is still tainted and he is failing to make a difference towards her future. 

Enjolras wishes so desperately that he could actually make a difference.


	3. Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire gets wasted.

**DRUNK**

_Tell you the truth, I hate what didn't kill me_

_It never made me stronger at all_

The short visit from Enjolras was so completely unexpected that Grantaire isn’t sure how to feel about it. In fact, he’s baffled by Enjolras’ recent behaviour. The man is actually paying attention to him for once, which is a miracle, because Enjolras has always blatantly despised Grantaire, or at least that’s what the skeptic believes.

His wrists are still stinging as he pours himself a glass of white wine (he’s all out of red, which is a disaster because _he’s all out of red_ , aka the greatest beverage in the entire universe, so this is a dark day for humanity). He drinks it up in a flash, then pours himself another glass, and another.

He feels like he’s having some dirty love affair with alcohol. He hates himself for indulging in it, but it’s _oh so good_ and he can’t possibly ever stop, even though the consequences could be devastating. The amount of times Joly has lectured him on the harmful effects of alcohol… _Fuck it,_ he thinks, because his liver is already most probably fucked up beyond repair and if he ever wanted to give up the booze he’d have to go to _meetings._

So for now Grantaire is a walking disaster with a shitload of health problems and a frankly toxic infatuation with the seemingly flawless leader of Les Amis de l’ABC. He’s pretty sure that when he dies he’s going straight to hell, no questions asked.

His phone beeps. It’s Eponine; his feisty, fiery best friend Eponine who has a slight obsession with a certain bumbling dork named Marius Pontmercy, bless her lovesick little soul. They haven’t spoken for a few days, Grantaire realises, and that makes him feel quite guilty.

 **Haven’t seen you in a while. Want to go out for a coffee or something? Ep xx**  

Smirking to himself, Grantaire types his reply.

**Or we could go to a club and get wasted? R x**

His grin broadens when he sees Éponine’s reply. 

**Excellent plan, mon ami. Ep x**

*

 

So later that night, Grantaire is sat in a bustling nightclub with Eponine, drinking his fourth cocktail (or maybe it’s his fifth, he’s lost count). Ponine is clad in her usual attire: black shorts, fishnet tights, biker boots, a crop top with some band name on it and of course her leather jacket. Her winged eyeliner is ludicrously perfect and her dark red lipstick accentuates her pout. She looks like a rock star or something, whereas Grantaire just looks a mess in his worn-out jeans and oversized jumper.

“Fucking jerk with his fucking face,” Ponine mumbles, and Grantaire realises he has been zoned out of the conversation, “And those fucking _freckles,_ I mean who does he think he is?”

It doesn’t take Grantaire long to work out who she’s talking about.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” he responds, “Being madly in love with someone in a sickeningly affectionate relationship, or being madly in love with someone who absolutely _loathes_ you.”

“Enjolras doesn’t loathe you,” Eponine states with some hesitation.

“Did I tell you he actually had the _nerve_ to come to my flat today? He is such a bastard and I hate his pretty little face and I wish I could punch him.”

“Doesn’t stop you getting unbearably hard over him, though,” his friend jokes. Grantaire prods her hard in the ribs as she starts laughing hysterically. 

“Ow, watch the girls!” Eponine complains, cupping her breasts in her hands and frowning. 

Grantaire spends a moment contemplating, staring down at the remnants of his drink.

“Shots?” he probes. 

“Shots,” replies Eponine, and she staggers over to the bar.

 

*

 

“We’re so fucked,” Grantaire snickers as they stumble through the streets together. Ponine has her head resting on his shoulder, and Grantaire has an arm around her waist.

“I bet Marius is fucked,” Eponine hiccups.

“What?” 

“I mean, I bet he’s fucking right now, ‘cause he’s a dick and he has a girlfriend that isn’t me, you know? And that’s not fair and I want to have _sex_ with him, R, like _right now._ ” 

Grantaire just laughs at Eponine’s nonsensical rambling. 

“You’re weird, Jondrette,” he remarks.

“T-Thénardier,” Eponine corrects him, “My real name is Eponine _Thénardier,_ did you know?”

 “Well, fuck me, no I did not.”

 

*

 

He wakes up the next morning tangled with Eponine in a bed that he doesn’t recognise (thankfully they’re both still fully clothed; he doesn’t think he’d be able to cope with the aftermath of a one night stand with his best friend, especially since he’s _gay)._ They take it in turns to use the bathroom, and Grantaire politely holds Ponine’s hair as she vomits ungracefully into the toilet.

“Where the fuck are we?” Grantaire questions, rubbing his throbbing temples.

“I have no clue, but let’s get out of here.”

 

*

 

It turns out they’re in the flat shared by Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, which makes absolutely no sense to either of them, but they don’t complain when Chetta cooks them a greasy fry-up and provides them with extra strong coffee.

“We found you both passed out on our doorstep, and thankfully we were able to carry you inside,” Bossuet explains, “It was, like, the luckiest thing that’s ever happened to me.

“I thought you were _dead_ ,” Joly states, looking both frightfully concerned and royally pissed off. He watches as Grantaire eats some outrageously greasy bacon and lets out a yelp. “I don’t know how you can eat that lethal food.” 

Musichetta flicks his cheek with her finger and he shrieks in pain.

“Don’t insult my cooking,” she says firmly, then she grins over at Grantaire and Eponine, “Anyway, a fry-up is the best cure for a hangover.”

Grantaire finds himself wishing that the food really was lethal, because right now all he wants to do is climb into a hole somewhere and _die._

 

*

 

He escorts Eponine home to her family’s apartment, where her sister is waiting nervously. As they walk through the door, Azelma springs to her feet and embraces her older sister tightly.

“ _Oh my god where were you are you okay I thought you were dead_ ,” Zelma says so quickly that it’s barely comprehendible. 

“Shit, Zel, I can’t breathe,” Eponine wheezes.

“Oh, sorry.”

 Azelma pulls away from the hug and smiles sheepishly. Grantaire shakes his head and lets himself out.

 

*

 

It is such a _revolting_ coincidence that he bumps into Enjolras on the Metro, and of course the blond looks like an _angel,_ with his golden mane and porcelain skin and those icy blue eyes that send inappropriate shivers through Grantaire’s body. And _of course_ Enjolras decides to sit beside him, their bodies so close that Grantaire can feel his hot breaths on his neck, and it’s practically torture. 

“Hey,” Enjolras greets after a moment of very awkward silence.

“Hi,” Grantaire mutters in response, his voice hoarse and his tone somewhat irritable.

“I’m… Sorry about yesterday.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” letting out a halfhearted laugh, Grantaire shakes his head, and Enjolras regards him with a confused expression, “You don’t need to keep apologising to _me,_ Apollo.” 

Enjolras flinches at the nickname. “Yeah, okay. Sorry.”

That just makes Grantaire laugh more, but this time it’s genuine, and he swears he catches a glimpse of Enjolras smiling and _blushing_? The laughing fit is over almost as soon as it started, though, as Grantaire feels a new wave of nausea rise through him. 

“Fuck,” he curses, “I actually feel like shit.” 

Enjolras gives him a look that clearly says _serves you right for drinking so much._

“I want to die,” Grantaire groans, only half-jokingly.

Enjolras’ stop is before his, and as he leaves he grins at Grantaire and gives him a quick pat on the shoulder. Even that slight contact (which was, hell, most probably intended to be patronizing) makes Grantaire’s heart stop in his chest.

 

*

 

He goes home and eats practically the entire contents of his fridge before proceeding to throw up onto the kitchen floor. He wipes away the foul smelling liquid with a cloth, his hands trembling. One of the many consequences of having an addiction, he knows, is withdrawal, and even though his head is _killing_ him and he feels like he’s going to be sick again at any moment, he pours himself a glass of whiskey and downs it in one go.

He can’t remember a time when he wasn’t either drunk or hungover. Sobriety is most definitely not his forte. It’s so frustratingly ironic that the world’s most messed-up drunken libertine has fallen for a beautiful, abstinent god with literally no flaws.

Or, at least, Grantaire presumes he has no flaws. How could Enjolras possibly have flaws? But then he remembers that _everyone_ has some sort of weakness, and he decides that he is determined to discover what Enjolras’ is.

First though he most definitely needs a shower. The cold water envelops him and he shudders as it runs over his skin.

The most frustrating thing in the universe at that moment is that he can’t stop thinking about Enjolras, and he is embarrassingly turned on, but his wrist hurts too much for him to do anything about it.

“You tragic useless fuck-up,” he whines.

 

*

 

One shower, several cans of beer and a dozen new cuts on his arms later, Grantaire decides that it would be a _brilliant_ idea to send Enjolras an out-of-context Shakespeare quote.

**O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven. R**

The reply is almost instant, which is worrying.

**What on earth are you talking about? E**

Grantaire rolls his eyes. 

**Romeo and Juliet, Apollo. R**

**The fact you know that quote word for word is concerning. E**

Grantaire would rather _die_ than tell Enjolras about his days in an amateur drama group when he was cast as Romeo. It’s a bitter irony that Romeo ends up killing himself, because once upon a time Grantaire found the prospect of suicide totally illogical, but now it’s becoming increasingly appealing.

 **Don’t concern yourself with me, mon ange. R**  

**I presume you’re drunk? E**

**You presume correctly. R**

**I’ve literally never known anyone that can be drunk and quote Shakespeare at the same time. E**

**I am a rare and exceptional specimen. R**

The conversation goes on for a while, and any awkwardness that had developed over the past few days is soon gone. They rant about recent political scandals (Enjolras’ contribution to the discussion) and the increasing cost of living in modern society (Grantaire’s). For once, Enjolras doesn’t comment on the fact that Grantaire is spending all his money on alcohol.

**Anyway I should go, I have uni tomorrow. Nice talking to you. E**

The last sentence reverberates around Grantaire’s head for the rest of the evening. _Nice talking to you._ Literally the last thing in the world Grantaire expected to hear from _Enjolras_ of all people. It’s a well-known fact that Enjolras detests him and Grantaire had come to accept that, but now he’s having doubts.

Maybe Enjolras is just trying to be nice. Yes, that’s what it is: he’s trying to be nice to Grantaire out of pity.

The thought makes him feel even more pathetic, and he drowns his insecurities in alcohol.

 

                                                                                                               


	4. There's a World

**THERE’S A WORLD**

_There’s a world_

_There’s a world I know, a place we can go_

_Where the pain will go away_

Enjolras remembers being excessively enthusiastic a few months ago, self-confident to the point of vanity and actually _happy._ He used to do dangerous, impulsive things that Combeferre would shout at him for, saying: “Enjolras, you could have gotten yourself killed!” or “Enj, what the hell were you playing at?”. He used to eat three meals a day, if he was prompted to, and looking at himself in the mirror didn’t make him feel disgusted with himself.

But then things changed. For him, it’s always like this; either he’s in this elevated, agitated mood or he’s crushed by depression and he cannot bring himself to do anything.

His depressive mood has been getting worse recently too, and he thinks it might have something to do with the fact Les Amis seem to be _failing_ more than ever. Lamarque (one of their benefactors) is suffering from some terminal illness and consequently has been less able to aid them, meaning they don’t have the financial or political support they need to advance their cause. It’s only January, and this year is already one of the worst he’s faced.

What makes things that agonising bit worse is that he really _cannot_ take his mind of Grantaire and it’s driving him mad. Enjolras has always been, as Courfeyrac puts it, ‘emotionally constipated’, and his feelings towards Grantaire are so utterly confusing. He knows that he loves Grantaire, but God he can’t figure out _how_ he loves him exactly, because it feels so _different_ to the love he feels for Combeferre and Courfeyrac, or different to the love he feels for the rest of his friends, or even his _mother._

“R?”

Enjolras blinks in confusion because Courfeyrac seems to be addressing Grantaire, yet Grantaire is most definitely not here. He looks at his computer screen at (what is supposed to be) his essay for uni, and instead sees that he’s had his finger held down on the R button for a ridiculous amount of time.

“Oh, God.”

“You’re pining so hard, it’s adorable,” Courf giggles.

“Seriously, fuck off,” Enjolras snaps in response, and he considers that maybe he’s been spending too much time with a certain cynic recently because he _never_ normally swears, “I’m not pining.”

“You so are, Juliet." 

Enjolras briefly remembers the text from Grantaire last night and flushes scarlet, but this embarrassment soon turns to irritation when he contemplates his friend’s words. 

“ _Juliet_? Wow, thanks Courf, so I’m a woman now?” he asks, rolling his eyes. 

Courfeyrac shrugs. “There’s nothing wrong with being a woman, Enji. Or a man, for that matter. Or a genderless entity like our Jehan, or a-”

“I get it, I get it,” Enjolras waves a hand in the air dismissively, “I mean, I _am_ the chief of a group of students fighting for social justice.”

“A group of students and Feuilly,” Courfeyrac corrects, then he leaves the room.

 

*

 

An hour later, Enjolras is sat with Combeferre in his bedroom, and the latter is ranting to him about ‘mental stability’ and ‘I’m concerned about you’ and ‘you should get checked out’.

“I don’t _need_ to get checked out, I’m _fine_ ,” Enjolras asserts.

“But Enj, I’m no psychiatrist but from your symptoms I think you might be bi-”

“No, I’m not,” interjects Enjolras, “I’m most definitely not bi, thank you very much, I have no attraction to women whatsoever and, for the most part, to men.”

Ferre’s expression is a combination of exasperation and concern. “You know I wasn’t going to say bisexual,” he says, folding his arms and glaring at Enjolras through his glasses, “I’ve known you since high school, Enj, and you’ve always shown signs of-" 

“Combeferre, _please_ ,” Enjolras cuts in again, and there’s a look of desperation on his face now, “Please can we not go into this?”

Combeferre sighs and nods reluctantly.

 

*

 

It’s a class-free day, and at about noon Enjolras finds himself quietly strolling alongside the Seine. He barely has the energy for it but he feels like he needs to be away from the flat right now, away from bouncy, sprightly Courfeyrac and persistent, worried Combeferre.

He hears the sound of wheels on the pavement behind him and turns to see a familiar boy riding a skateboard towards him. The boy is wearing a baseball cap and a pair of denim shorts; his knees are covered in grazes and bruises. His shoes are worn-out and caked in mud.

“Gavroche?”

“Mornin’, Chief,” Gavroche responds with a perky grin.

“ _Afternoon,_ ” Enjolras corrects him, “It’s half past twelve, Gavroche. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

Gavroche just gives him a sheepish look as if to say ‘you don’t want to know’.

“Okay, whatever, forget I asked,” Enjolras sighs, shaking his head, “What do you want?”

The boy shrugs. “I just saw you and thought I’d say hello.” 

“Well, you’ve said hello now, so you can leave.” 

Gavroche scowls and folds his arms, refusing to move. Enjolras lets out another sigh and tries to think of something to say.

“Have you spoken to Grantaire recently?” he asks, and he doesn’t know why he asks that question but even saying Grantaire’s name makes him feel strangely dizzy.

The child raises an eyebrow and smirks. “I saw him a few days ago, but what’s it to you? I thought you didn’t like him.” 

“Of course I like him.”

“He thinks you hate him, you know? But he adores you.”

Enjolras’ cheeks turn red again and he tries to splutter out a reply, but to no avail. Gavroche laughs and shakes his head.

“Nice seeing you, Chief,” he says with a nod, then he skates off.

 

*

 

When he sits down at the Musain for a cup of coffee, the last person he wants to see is Marius Pontmercy, who just so happens to be there too and takes a seat opposite him. Enjolras frowns a little as Marius sits there, smiling awkwardly and red like a tomato. 

“What do you want?” Enjolras questions rather tetchily.

“O-Oh, well,” Marius stumbles over his words, “I just thought you might want s-some company?”

Enjolras practically scoffs, and his friend lets out a nervous laugh.

“How are you?” asks Marius.

“Fine,” Enjolras answers curtly, “You?”

“I’m good, thank you. In fact, I’m excellent.”

Marius starts rambling about Cosette whilst staring dreamily out of the window, and Enjolras takes the opportunity to discreetly put in his earphones. He’s in the middle of listening to _La Vie en Rose_ when Marius tentatively taps him on the shoulder.

“Um, Enjolras, I have to go now,” Marius states. 

“Oh, good,” Enjolras replies, then he grimaces and quickly corrects himself, “Goodbye, I mean.”

“Uh, right.”

 

*

 

It’s already starting to go dark when Enjolras arrives back at the apartment. Combeferre is apparently out shopping so he’s alone with Courfeyrac, who seems to be engrossed in some video game so pays his flat mate little attention. Appreciating the solitude, Enjolras uses his time to relax on his bed and scroll down tumblr on his laptop (he has a social justice blog, of course he does, and honestly none of his friends are surprised when he tells them about it).

But reblogging social justice photos doesn’t last for long, and for some reason Enjolras finds himself searching for pictures of tattoos and paints and alcohol. It only occurs to him a while later why exactly he’s doing this, and the thought scares him, because seriously, is he infatuated with Grantaire or something? He really doesn’t understand his feelings, and that is confusing and depressing.

He’s on his fourth cup of black coffee when Courfeyrac bursts into the room with a wide grin on his face that clearly says ‘I have an idea’, and that is not an expression Enjolras wants to see right now.

“Hey, Enji,” Courfeyrac greets, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed, “I was wondering, and I think it would be a good idea for you to get a girlfriend or something.” 

Enjolras practically spits out his coffee. “Jesus, Courf, what are you _on_?” he probes, “You know that I’m completely-”

“Not heterosexual, of course, sorry, I forgot,” Courf interrupts.

“Uninterested in romance,” Enjolras corrects, rolling his eyes, “Why could you possibly think that _me_ dating is a good idea?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “I dunno. I feel like it could be good for you. But I guess since you’re still gooey-eyed for ‘Taire-”

“I’m not fucking gooey-eyed for anyone,” Enjolras snaps, “Especially not _Grantaire_.”

And, _oh god,_ as if there wasn’t a worse time for Combeferre to come waltzing through the door, accompanied by none other than Grantaire himself. Enjolras literally feels like he’s dying, because that was _really_ not his finest moment.

“Um, thanks,” he hears Grantaire say, sounding hurt, and Enjolras feels a pang of guilt in his chest, “I guess I should leave. Nice talking to you, Ferre.” 

He begins to walk away, but Enjolras practically leaps off the bed without thinking and grabs his arm. Grantaire turns to face him abruptly, and for a moment there’s an expression of pain that flashes across his face, so Enjolras loosens his grip on the man’s wrist.

“I-I’m sorry,” he falters, “I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that, it’s not how it sounded, I-”

“No, Enjolras, it’s fine, I get it,” Grantaire interrupts, and the fact he actually uses Enjolras’ name rather than the ridiculous nickname he’s so used to is worrying. 

“Grantaire, I-”

“I’m leaving.”

“R-" 

“Just… Stop it, Enjolras. Let go of my arm. Okay, thank you. Goodnight.”

And with that he’s gone, and Enjolras literally collapses onto the floor, banging his head against the wall and letting out a loud groan. Combeferre puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder and Courfeyrac whistles.

“Well, that was eventful,” the latter states.

Enjolras feels his eyes stinging with tears. “I always fuck everything up, don’t I?”

“No, shush, it’s fine, Enj,” Ferre tells him, and he kneels down beside him as Enjolras starts to cry and holds him to his chest, “Hey, it’s alright, he knows you didn’t mean it.”

“He thinks I _hate_ him, Ferre,” Enjolras replies, his voice a lot higher than usual, “I-I don’t hate him, I…”

“I know,” Combeferre says, flashing him an understanding smile. 

“Maybe you _should_ try dating,” Courfeyrac adds suddenly. 

Enjolras glares at him. “Why the hell would I want to do that?”

“Maybe you should try dating _Grantaire_ ,” answers Courf with a smug grin, and this time it’s Combeferre shooting daggers at him. Courfeyrac responds to this with his famous puppy-dog eyes and Combeferre lets out a sigh. 

“Give us a moment, would you, Courf?”

He skips out of the room obediently, twirling a dark curl around his finger.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, sternly yet tenderly, “Tomorrow I’m taking you to a doctor.”

“No, you-”

“Don’t even try to argue with me. It’s horrible seeing my best friend so down, and this isn’t just about Grantaire, is it? It’s more than that. You aren’t eating, you aren’t sleeping, I’ve caught you crying into your pillow a few times. I’m _worried_.”

Enjolras buries his face into his friend’s shoulder and sniffs. “I’m sorry,” he mutters pathetically.

“Don’t be,” Combeferre replies, stroking his blond curls, “Listen, you’re clearly depressed, and Grantaire is clearly depressed, and I don’t think you arguing with each other all the time is helping.” 

“What do you suggest, then?” 

“Try to be nicer to him, and he’ll be nicer to you. Trust me Enj, it’ll make you feel so much better.” 

“I _do_ try, Ferre,” responds Enjolras, “But I can’t help it sometimes, I just snap at him and I don’t know why, and then I feel like shit.”

“It’s not your fault, Enj. Now, get some rest, okay?”

When Combeferre has gone, Enjolras clambers into bed and curls up into the foetal position, making himself as small as possible.

Tomorrow is going to be a long day.


	5. Flaws

**FLAWS**

_There’s a hole in my soul_

_I can’t fill it, I can’t fill it_

Since Enjolras’ little outburst about him earlier, Grantaire finds that alcohol is doing nothing to numb his emotions. In fact, it’s making everything worse. He can’t stop picturing the _disgust_ on the man’s face when he said his name, as if the thought of fancying Grantaire was absolutely repulsive. After several (he’s not sure how many) cans of beer, he decides that he needs to take further action, and that’s how he finds himself stumbling in an alleyway somewhere.

He remembers Eponine telling him that this is where Montparnasse does his ‘business’, and the thought of the criminal sends a shiver down Grantaire’s spine. Slicked back raven hair, foreboding green eyes, piercings in places that seem frankly _wrong_ and, worst of all, the fact that Montparnasse literally towers over him. Grantaire has only ever met Montparnasse once, but the memory still haunts him.

 As the man approaches him, Grantaire feels a strong urge to run away. It’s Dutch courage (or rather, French courage) that keeps him there.

“After something?” Montparnasse questions vaguely, and Grantaire swallows.

“What’ve you got?” he asks, trying to sound as calm as possible. 

Montparnasse reaches into his pocket and discreetly pulls out a small plastic bag of white powder. Grantaire can feel his heart racing as he fumbles for his wallet.

“How much?”

“Sixty,” Montparnasse replies curtly.

Grantaire can’t help feeling like he’s being ripped off as he pulls sixty euros out of his wallet and passes the money to Montparnasse, but honestly he couldn’t care less as the other man hands him the packet of powder.

He scuttles away through the dark streets and finds himself in a rather grimy public toilet that stinks of urine and other things Grantaire doesn’t want to think about. He locks himself in a cubicle and five minutes later he’s out again, sniffing and rubbing his nose.

Grantaire tries to stagger back home but finds that he is completely disorientated, so instead he stops in the street and pulls out his phone. He’s shaking and his heart is racing, but he feels _good._ He feels fucking amazing and pretty much invincible.

That’s why he decides that calling Enjolras right now would be a good idea.

The man doesn’t answer the call the first time, so Grantaire rather impatiently tries again. This time he’s greeted by a rather irritable sounding Enjolras.

“What?” the man questions snappily. 

“Hey, Apollo,” Grantaire slurs, “F-fuck you.”

There’s a long silence and Grantaire smirks triumphantly to himself.

“I… I’m sorry about earlier.” 

“Doesn’t fucking matter anymore. So kindly fuck off and let me get on with my life.”

“Are you okay?” Enjolras queries, a slight tone of concern in his voice, “Are you drunk?” 

Grantaire just hums in response.

“Where are you?” continues Enjolras, “Seriously, are you okay? I’m worried.” 

“You’re not fucking worried,” Grantaire responds, “And I’m _great_ , thank you very much, I’m fucking kite as a- er, high as a kite.”

“Oh God, please tell me you’re not actually high.”

Grantaire chortles. 

“Right, that’s it, I’m coming for you. Where are you?”

“None of your fucking business. And I have no fucking clue anyway but whatever.”

Enjolras starts ranting about something Grantaire doesn’t care about, so the latter hangs up the phone and stumbles through the streets until he eventually finds himself outside his apartment block. He discovers that he can’t open his front door, so instead he decides to pound on his neighbour’s door. It’s a good job he lives next to Feuilly. 

“God, R, what happened?” the redhead asks with concern, leading Grantaire into his flat.

Grantaire smiles at him broadly with glassy eyes and pupils that are far too big to be normal. It takes Feuilly a moment to realise, but when he does he lets out a gasp and embraces Grantaire tightly.

“You fucking idiot, are you okay? What have you taken?”

“I’m fine,” Grantaire murmurs into Feuilly’s flannel pyjamas, “Uh, coke, I think?”

He starts laughing, like this whole ordeal is hilarious. Feuilly ignores it and reaches into his coat pocket. He finds an almost-empty bag with remnants of powder and shoots his friend a troubled expression.

“Go and sleep it off. You’re going to feel like shit in the morning but let’s not worry about that now.”

“I’m not tired,” Grantaire complains as Feuilly pushes him through to the bedroom. 

“I don’t care. You’re going to bed. Goodnight.”

 

*

 

After a while of fidgeting restlessly in bed, Grantaire suddenly finds himself feeling empty. The initial buzz has completely worn off and now he just feels like he’s spiraling into oblivion. His head hurts. He cannot bring himself to move, even when the bedroom door suddenly bursts open. He doesn’t even open his eyes to see who’s there, but it crosses his mind that it must be Feuilly, since this is his apartment.

“Grantaire.”

It isn’t Feuilly.

He has a panicked tone in his voice that makes Grantaire want to die right then and there. The latter lets out a grunt and that’s about as much of a response he gives. His hands are shaking. Dear lord, he’s getting withdrawal, and he can’t tell whether it’s from the drink or the drugs. He _really_ hopes it’s not the drugs, but it probably is. 

“You’re such an idiot! What were you thinking, Grantaire? You can’t just get high a-and expect to magically recover, you’re going to get _cravings_ and… This is so fucking awful.”

Enjolras collapses onto the bed despairingly and puts his head in his hands. Grantaire catches a glimpse of this out of the corner of his eye and groans.

“You think I don’t fucking know that?” he murmurs, “I used to be a junkie, you know? I used to be a pathetic smack addict but then I _got off it_ and now I’m _fine,_ so I’m sure a gram of coke won’t make that much of a difference.” 

Enjolras just sighs. “I didn’t know that, actually.”

“Well, now you do, so fuck off.”

Grantaire rolls onto his side, with a great deal of effort. He’s shivering. He doesn’t expect the gentle touch of fingers stroking his disheveled hair, and he moans in protest, but he’s too exhausted to do anything else about it.

“I’m going to keep an eye on you for a while,” the blond man tells him, “Just until the side effects have properly worn off. I _really_ don’t want you to become a cocaine addict. Promise me you won’t take any more?”

There’s so much uncertainty and worry in Enjolras’ voice. If it were anyone else it would seem genuine, but Grantaire knows that Enjolras hates his guts. He’s doing this out of _pity_ and probably for his own amusement. He doesn’t care, not at all. He never has. 

“I can’t promise anything, but put it this way, I don’t exactly _want_ to get addicted,” Grantaire sighs, “It’s fucking awful, trust me. Now can I _please_ just sleep?”

 

*

 

He wakes up again a while later and is surprised to find Enjolras laying next to him, sleeping peacefully. He looks positively angelic. A stray golden curl is resting on his cheek and his apple-bud lips are slightly parted, revealing pearly teeth. Grantaire brushes the curl from his cheek and stares at him solemnly.

Enjolras stirs. Abruptly Grantaire turns away and pretends to be sleeping. He hears the other man let out a sigh and then suddenly there’s a hand on his, entwining their fingers together. He shudders and presses the hand tightly, his own hands still trembling. Delicate fingers trace his pale skin and he can’t help letting out a hum of pleasure. 

“When you phoned me before,” Enjolras says, breaking the perfect moment of silence, “You said I wasn’t worried. Well, I was. I’ve never been so worried in my life, Grantaire. I-I can’t… I couldn’t bear it if something bad happened to you.” 

“You’re just saying that,” Grantaire mutters skeptically.

“You don’t understand how much you mean to me.”

Grantaire can _feel_ the doubt and confusion. It’s refreshing, in a way, that Enjolras is acting so _human_ all of a sudden. But he’s also been so sombre and quiet recently, and that’s alarming. A couple of months ago he was practically bouncing off the walls; he would get so enthusiastic about his speeches, he would behave dangerously at protests, he would do things that seemed frankly crazy but with a sense of ardent devotion. Now at meetings he never has the same passion, and they haven’t been to a protest for weeks. 

“Are you depressed?” he asks suddenly, because he knows the symptoms and under the influence of drugs he’s not afraid to ask.

“Not exactly,” Enjolras mumbles feebly in response.

“Not exactly? What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”

“Ferre thinks I’m bipolar.”

“Well, are you?”

“Yeah, but-” Enjolras stops abruptly and lets out a sigh, “I don’t like talking about it.”

“Have you seen a psychiatrist?” asks Grantaire, his voice suddenly softer.

“When I was younger, yes. My mother took me because she was concerned about my behaviour. They diagnosed me but… But my father kept calling me crazy and… And that’s why I don’t like talking about it, okay?”

There’s something about the way Enjolras is confiding in him that makes Grantaire feel important; like he actually _means_ something to the other man. Obviously he doesn’t. Maybe this is a dream, a very strange cocaine-induced dream.

“Are you on any meds?” he probes.

“I’m supposed to be,” Enjolras confesses, “But I never take them.”

“You should, it’ll help,” Grantaire states, like he’s an expert on mental illness (which he kind of is, but being a depressed alcoholic isn’t really the same as being a doctor, is it?).

“I hate feeling like this,” sighs Enjolras, and suddenly his body is pressed close to Grantaire’s and they’re _in each other’s arms_ (it must be a dream, but Grantaire isn’t complaining), “I want to be _happy_ again, Grantaire.”

“There’s a difference between happy and manic, and I’ve seen you when you’re manic, and it’s not pretty.”

“I can’t control it.”

“I know, but medication will help, so will you _please_ go and see a doctor or something?” the cynic requests.

Enjolras hesitates. “Only if you do too.”

Grantaire scoffs. “Right, so we’re both going to see shrinks, okay,” he says, shaking his head, “Thanks for telling me about this, Apollo. I… I really want to help you, somehow.” 

“I want to help you too,” Enjolras replies, nuzzling his head into Grantaire’s shoulder, “We can help each other.”

A moment later their noses are touching and they’re staring intently into each other’s eyes – icy grey and azure blue, dark circles and dilated pupils. Grantaire’s heart is pounding. Almost automatically he closes his eyes and moves forward, their lips just brushing and…

“I made breakfast!”

It’s Feuilly. Enjolras practically jumps off the bed and looks up at the redhead, his cheeks scarlet. 

“Uh, is everything okay?” Feuilly asks.

“Fucking dandy,” Grantaire groans.

“Right, good. Well, I made waffles.”

He places a plate down on the end of the bed; golden waffles with maple syrup and chocolate spread. Grantaire’s stomach actually growls and he tucks in. Enjolras sits numbly against the wall, embracing his knees and rocking ever so gently.

“You not going to eat, Enj?” Feuilly inquires.

“Um, not hungry,” is Enjolras’ quiet response.

“Right, whatever. Anyway, I have to go to work, so sorry you guys but I’ll have to leave you to it. _Au revoir_!”

With that he’s gone. Grantaire glances thoughtfully over at Enjolras as he eats.

“You know,” he says through a mouthful of food, “Every time anyone offers you food you say you’re not hungry. Every single time.”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m not. I’m just saying.” 

“Well don’t ‘just say’ _._ I’m _fine_.”

After that the room is filled with a lingering sense of tension and awkwardness. Neither man speaks. Grantaire cannot take his eyes of Enjolras because he’s finally starting to realise that his friend has lost _a lot_ of weight recently. There’s something that Enjolras isn’t telling him, or rather, he expects, a lot of things he isn’t telling him.

But he can’t exactly complain, since he’s practically drowning in secrets himself.


End file.
